


Blood

by Nemoinis



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Blood As Lube, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Episode Related, M/M, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemoinis/pseuds/Nemoinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a "Chute" related  story using blood as lube.  </p><p>Paris does what he can to help Harry think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving everything to AO3; this story is 20 years old. Yikes!
> 
> Kudos and/or comments are welcome and appreciated. Thanks!

Angry noise drags me from an uneasy sleep of half formed fears; a re- play of cold, dark walls and vague, never-ending pain. For a brief moment I don't know where I am and I find myself clinging to the deep throb of agony in my belly. It reminds me I'm alive.

Another noise and I try not to flinch. Avoid drawing attention. Avoid drawing his gaze. But I can't help it. I can't even stop this trembling that eats away my strength; leaving me spent and tired. It worried me in my saner moments, comforted me in my delusion with its constancy; but now I can't tell which is which.... I only know that if it stops, I will cease to be.

Harry glares at me with those bloodshot eyes, squinting through the rage, scratching frantically at his scalp; trying so very hard to ignore the fiery tendrils of anger that I know are running down his spine. 

They're the same ones running through mine; twisted and mutated by the dull burn of my knife wound. 

I hear a thin, raspy voice asking him if anything's wrong, and I barely recognize it as my own. But who else would ask such a stupid question? Who, besides the shaking man lying in the corner, watching his own blood blacken on the cold gray floor? 

He's yelling at me and I can't hear the words, only see the rage in his hands as they slowly strangle the pipe he holds. He wants to hurt me and some dark part of me aches to feel that pain; for him to rip and tear and beat at me until I can no longer remember where I am. But he won't, he never does. Because he's my friend and he won't leave me here alone. He promises he wont let me die... 

I'm sorry, Harry. I'm not that strong. 

********************** 

The dull pounding rhythm Harry beats against the wall comes quicker now, and sparks fly from the pipes tortured tip. The fire is swallowing him before my fevered eyes and I blurt out my offer again; torn between my failing instinct to survive and the overwhelming desire to be *his* survival. He turns to glare at me, not yet feral, but no longer my friend. I'm scared he'll accept and terrified that he won't. 

I just say *please*. 

When he finally reacts, I can't suppress a gasp as he drops to his knees in front of me, unlacing his pants and pushing up my shirt. I've used my pants as a pillow since the first time. It hurts too much to keep taking them off. 

He slides his quivering hand under the filthy bandage covering my abdomen, until I feel his fingers catch on the edges of the raw wound. He pauses, fingers still, breath ragged in his throat, and I know that he's savoring the sensation. The texture there is fascinating; soft, supple skin heated by infection, slick and jagged all at once. 

I know. 

I've touched it, explored it, been caught in the stimulation of something different. Different than the gray walls and gray floor and the gray faces that stare at us. Seduced by the thing that kills me; probably killing myself with my own roaming dirty hands, if not with the condemning hands of my best friend. My own brand of Paris luck. 

He pushes slowly, fingertips slipping into the wound, sliding reverently into my body like the lover that he will never really be. My voice cracks when I tell him to hurry, to finish before I'm gone. He does and I choke back a scream. No noise, no noise, no noise. The scavengers here are drawn by screams, and my lips are scabbed and sore from my silence. 

When Harry pulls his fingers out we both stare at the shining scarlet; absorbed in the play of light as it trickles down the back of his hand. He moves closer, the heat of his cock against the back of my thigh, and I have to stop the hysterical laugh that struggles to erupt. Is there anything I wouldn't have given to feel that same heat a year ago, a month ago, even a week? How long have I ached to have him writhing beneath me, only to find myself begging him to violate me as I wait to die? 

I watch him wrap his hand around his own cock, coating it with my tired blood; thrusting into his own hand, grunting. Gasping. Making me yearn, but my body betrays me with its disinterest. A brand new hell; begging to be taken by *him* and unable to enjoy it. 

Then Harry trails those long fingers through the blood turning dark on my stomach and I writhe frantically, turning inside out. Escape, escape, escape. I can't help trying to evade the act which I invite him to perform. He only grasps my hip cruelly with a free hand and forces his weight over me. We've danced to this tune before. Then he's pinning me, crushing me, violating me. 

Fulfilling me. 

And with a thrust I am gone, floating on a red cloud of blood, losing myself to the blackness. Dimly feeling his ragged breathing on my neck, knowing that his inky hair is hanging across his forehead and plastered to a sweaty cheek. I can almost see those bruised eyes squeeze tight in pleasure and that beautiful mouth drawn back, teeth bared. Almost. Sometimes the pain is a blessing. 

********************** 

The steady thumping beneath my ear rouses me. He cradles me to chest, comforting me, his breath gentle in my hair. He murmurs softly as he works on our escape, rational and calm for a while, his rage expelled into my body. I lie here silently, feeling my blood slow, my heart beating sluggishly. I want to tell him goodbye, but selfishly I don't, afraid he'll move. Maybe if I'm quiet and just drift away, somehow this moment will become my heaven; his heartbeat filling my head and his fingers occasionally stroking me. 

His heartbeat lulls me and I slide away, secure in the arms that guard me. 

******************** 

Voyager hums about me, silent and dark. Too quiet. I almost miss the din of a hundred crazed voices. I wonder what Harry's doing in the silence. Is he pretending, like me? All alone, like me? 

My lazy fingertips wander across my belly, sliding through the evidence of my orgasm. Red and white swirling together, warm and slick under my touch. I feel lightheaded but I don't reach for the regenerator right away. I like this muzzy world, where I can drift away, dreaming 

And the gentle patter of my blood on the floor sounds almost like Harry's heartbeat.


End file.
